Focus on the Frosting
by holmesloafer
Summary: Some eight-year-olds wanted new toys, new clothes, and new shoes. He just wanted to see her smile.


Peeta wasn't in a good mood.

Every inch of his body ached, and it tingled with every slight squirm. At the moment, he couldn't care less about his appearance, but if a mirror was held in front of him he would notice the swelling beneath his eye, the bloody cut on his lip, the bruises scattered around his face—and if he took off his shirt, the large purple welt on his chest.

Neither was his disposition alleviated by the fact that his brother had accidentally broken his toy—his _only_ toy—and repeatedly stomped on it, crushing it further, when Peeta demanded him to apologize in between sobs

Arlick had thrown the first punch in an attempt to make his younger brother shut up. But it backfired, because the jab only fueled Peeta's anger, consequently tackling his brother to the ground. Blows were exchanged, a mixed show of wrestling and kickboxing, until their father had intervened in the ruckus.

Their mother had come home to quite a scene—the bakery already closed at half-past four in the afternoon, on its floor a visible mess of flour and dough, both of her sons sporting swollen purplish-red lumps as faces—but the bakery! It's absolutely scandalous. _What would all her friends say?_

Shrieks tumbled from her mouth the moment she laid eyes on her sons. She took her purse and immediately began swinging it across their faces—back and forth, back and forth—until cuts were reopened and more bruises joined the chaotic disarrays that were, or used to be, their faces.

"Enough!"

The three of them winced at the intensity and the firmness of the voice, that seemed to come from none other than the quiet, gentle man otherwise known as their father. His fists were clenched, so tightly that Peeta expected them to burst at any given moment, his face was flushed, his jaw as tense as a live wire.

"I said, enough!" he said, and trudged to his wife before snatching the purse harshly from her fingers. Astonishment was evident on her face; it was the first time he had stood up to her in their fifteen years of marriage.

He turned to his sons, who were as awestruck as their mother. "Go to your rooms." he told them sternly. They willingly obeyed, not desiring to re-experience the feeling of that red purse with metal rings and heavy, dense contents against their faces.

As they hastily ascended the stairs, their mother, Ambrosia, had regained her composure, with her hand posed to strike her husband. It was unknown to them if she had succeeded in hitting their father, but the resounding yells and screechees that followed them to their room proved that he continued to fight back. They felt a sudden surge of pride for him, and were left to contemplate why he hadn't retaliated on any of the discipline sessions she had held before.

They opened their door to Magrain, their eldest brother, who was abruptly alarmed by the state of their faces. He simply nods, quickly comprehending the reason for their condition, and for the screams muffled by the closed door.

They weren't called down for dinner that night, but it didn't matter. Magrain always kept a hidden stash of food—particularly sweets—underneath a loose floorboard beside his bed. It was adequate for the three of them, but Peeta declined the offer. He still couldn't escape the miserable feeling that crept up on him since his toy was damaged, especially with the continued absence of Arlick's apology. Normally, a brawl like that would end a disagreement, and would suffice as an unspoken apology, but this time he found he couldn't let it go.

Magrain, ever the compassionate one, had asked him what was bothering him, but silence was his only response. Arlick said not a word either, weary with Magrain's extensive sermons. The eldest brother had a blend of his parents' noble attributes, being as authoritative as his mother and as reasonable as his father. But neither of his parents were tolerant enough, established by the fact that his father _finally_ broke, so he eventually surrendered from his interrogation.

Peeta's brothers murmured amongst each other, but he didn't care. The wounds on his face stung, but he didn't care. His only toy was destroyed, probably already on its way to the dump, but he didn't _want_ to care. Certainly he was to be punished, but he shouldn't be caring. Not yet.

He surrendered to the grips of drowsiness soon after, tired of caring for such fickle things.

* * *

"We've decided."

Breakfast was uneventful, excluding the evident tension in the air. Peeta had resolved to staring at his muffin, prodding it with his fork. He had just concluded that it was an unappetizing muffin; aside from its staleness, it could use a touch of vanilla frosting and a filling of jelly. The brothers looked up at their father, confusion etched on their expressions.

"Decided what?" asked Arlick, with his bread-filled mouth.

Their mother cleared her throat. "Your punishments. We've decided that you should help the Douglins with hauling around the crates for the market." she told Arlick. "And you," she said, this time to Peeta, "are going to work in the bakery with your father. Three days each, no excuses."

She rose from the table, taking with her the finished dishes. Their father sighed, and consulted his watch. "You better go, Arlick. Mr. Douglin's expecting you in a quarter of an hour. Peeta, you ready?"

Peeta swallowed his muffin whole, attempting to hide his delight. _He's going to help at the bakery!_ He stood up too quickly, letting his chair tumble over. He feared if his mother noticed his eagerness, she would deem the punishment too easy for him and decide to change it. But he won't give her that satisfaction.

He anxiously tagged along to the bakery, acting too enthusiastic to go unnoticed by his father. But he only smiled and shook his head.

They entered through the back door, a privilege granted only to the Mellarks and their workers. Even so, he and his brothers rarely benefited from that privilege, because their mother always sent them away to keep things in order. His brothers didn't mind the loss; besides, they'd rather chase after girls than be stuck doing chores for their father.

Naturally, Peeta was giddy with excitement as his father introduced him to the appliances and the different ingredient containers, as an employee manned the counter. He was silently handed ice cubes wrapped in a towel, clearly for his bruises, with a sympathetic gaze from his father. The cold relief was so soothingly pleasant that he dared not suppress a sigh.

"What do you want to do first, son?" Nathaniel had asked, giving him the impression that the time they were spending together was not a price to pay for his faults.

"Can you p—teach me how to ice the cakes?" he suggested, trying to mask the hopefulness in his voice. He was on the verge of saying "Please", but he decided against it for fear of sounding too desperate.

His father's eyes twinkled, clearly pleased. He recalled when his father had asked him the same question in this same bakery some twenty-five years ago, to which he gave the same reply. He had asked his other sons but neither of them responded satisfactorily, muttering things like "Supposed to hang out with Amarie" and "This is a hell of a waste of time" under their breaths.

Nathaniel had dreaded the possibility that none of his sons would be capable of continuing the Mellark legacy. Magrain was hardworking and perseverant, but that's the only reason he baked—not because he liked doing it, but because he had to. Arlick, on the other hand, was a hopeless case; he couldn't even bake to save his own life, much like his mother. Peeta had been his last chance.

"Come on, then." he said, beckoning to his son.

Peeta spent the morning learning about different cakes, frosting ingredients, and what kind of frosting went with what kind of cake. It was the most fun he'd had since the walks he had taken with his grandfather, who had recently passed away. They used to take strolls around town every weekend, and his grandfather would tell him stories about the time before the Dark Days when he was certain no one would overhear.

"Hey, pal." said Nathaniel, laying his hand on his son's shoulder, shaking him out of his captivation by the various recipes. "You must be hungry. Why don't you go head home? I still need to sort some things out."

He sprinkled sugar into his concoction—he was experimenting with the right proportions for each ingredient—and he dipped his finger in the mixture to taste it. "But you haven't taught me how to frost yet." he replied.

"I know. We'll get to that after lunch, okay?" he said, ruffling Peeta's hair.

"Okay." he replied, cleaning his workspace.

"Oh, and Peeta?" Nathaniel called out to him when he had reached the doorway. "Not a word to your mother about this." he said with a wink.

* * *

He thought it was everything he could have ever hoped for, with the pride on his father's face discernible. He had made a batch of cupcakes—_frosted_ cupcakes—all by himself. He wasn't one to brag but if he were asked, he would say his cupcakes were great, for a beginner that is. No doubt, he had room for improvement. But it was his first try and he certainly had a good deal of time to practice.

"Why don't we bring them home? A break from stale bread would be lovely, don't you think?"

The thought was strangely thrilling, but there was a fifty-fifty chance of how things could go. His mother could throw a fit and ban him from the bakery, or she could be pleased by his talent and view him as an employee who need not be paid; never mind he was only eight years old, he'd be glad to help anyways. Indeed, it was a risk with much to gain—a chance to bake every day—albeit there was also much to lose.

He only gave a slight nod, and he held his father's hand on the way home after they left the workers to lock the place.

His hands were trembling with anticipation as Nathaniel set the box of pastries on the table. The rest of the family had already gathered around the table, and they eyed the box with both anxiety and delight.

His mother untied the ribbon that Peeta added for aesthetic purposes. She daintily picked one, a sponge cupcake with milk chocolate icing in the shape of daisies, and sniffed it before laying it back down.

"These aren't even a day old, Nathan." she hissed.

"Taste one, Rosia."

She took a small bite out of it, the one with milky daisies, before swallowing the rest in one gulp.

"Well?" said Nathaniel, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

She narrowed her eyes, choosing her words, careful as to not pay a compliment. "Who made them?" she asked, suspicious.

He ignored her question, turned to his elder sons and gestured for them to take one. It was such a change from the usual moldy bread that they each grabbed two.

"They're good." said Magrain, as Arlick nodded his approval with a mouth full of food, as usual. "Who made them?" he asked, echoing his mother.

Peeta took a sudden interest with his plate, tracing his finger along the rim. "He did." said Nathaniel, the grin in his voice apparent, as he cocked his head towards his youngest son.

"Did he clean up the mess?" she asked, her eyebrow raised.

"There wasn't any." mumbled Peeta, feeling defensive.

She relaxed in her chair, still skeptical, and said no more. Peeta was glad.

* * *

It was driving him mad. His father was eating as sluggishly as possible, and he felt as if it was a jab at him. Peeta arose at three o'clock in the morning, earning a few choice words from his brothers who were "trying to sleep, here!", and finished his morning routine in a record time of fifteen minutes. It was the fastest he'd eaten breakfast, and it was a miracle he experienced it without heartburn. Indigestion was a mere contestant against all the enthusiasm the new day had brought.

As soon as his father finished tying his shoelaces, he ran out the door and headed to the bakery. Six o'clock was the usual time for miners and merchants alike to wake, yet it was still a quarter of an hour to five, but he didn't mind. Maybe his father did, but it was unlikely, as he noticed him beaming as he started to prepare the dough for the day.

Peeta continued his experiments immediately, adding a teaspoon of vanilla extract to his original recipe, because vanilla was his favorite. Other kids his age preferred the more complicated flavors, like lemon buttercream or cinnabon, but they weren't the one baking it, were they?

Six in the morning approached quickly, and he had already perfected both vanilla and caramel frosting. He begged his father to taste each of them, and he happily obliged, saying afterwards it was even better than his own recipes. This made Peeta grin widely from ear to ear, finally feeling what it's like to have a parent become proud of what he had done.

Regular customers were the only kind of people who visited at this early hour; they were the ones who always bought the same products at the same times on the same days. After another hour, he succeeded at his buttercream frosting. Buttercream was a need-to-know procedure, since it was and always will be a big hit among all ages. Ideally, it was perfectly both salty and sweet with a rich texture. According to his father—and Bront, the morning-shift worker—his recipe was right on the dot of flawlessness.

The chimes latched on the door resounded in the kitchen, signaling a customer had arrived. His father was watching some dough he tested on, cautious as to prevent being burnt.

"Son, would you do me a favor and attend to the customer? Bront ran an errand for me."

Peeta wiped his hands distractedly on his towel, before heading to the counter.

He had assisted customers enough times to know the protocol, but he found himself tongue-tied to face this particular one.

"How may—" he started, but his voice had gone hoarse, so he cleared his throat and began again. "How may I help you?" he asked, struggling to return the customer's gaze.

They were of the same age, and understandably went to the same class. She was the kind of girl who everyone steered clear of, partly because she was quiet, but mostly because of her parentage—a Seam father and a townie for a mother. Children with mixed blood like her were considered outcasts; they were accepted in neither areas of the District.

He had never spoken even a single word to her before that day, but that didn't mean he never paid her any attention. On the first day of school, his father pointed her out amongst a throng of five-year-olds, but since then he didn't have to. She was the first one he saw—or looked for—in every crowd, every school hallway, every cafeteria table. He was very fascinated indeed, but his curiosity couldn't overcome his fear. Fear of rejection, fear of humiliation, and ultimately the ever-present fear of what his mother would say.

She held her chin up and straightened the front of her blue dress. "I'd like to speak to an, er, adult please."

He raised her eyebrow. Majority of the customers found delight being assisted by a child. It only reinforced the fact that she was indeed different from everyone else, with the dark brown strands of hair that refused to be included in either of her braids, the large gray eyes brimming with confidence, the small thumbs twiddling against each other which betrayed her attempt at intimidation, the delicate-looking legs awkwardly shifting her weight—

She cleared her throat, snapping him out of his reverie. "Oh, right, uh—c-certainly." he stammered.

He trudged gauchely towards the kitchen, knowing his flustered face would be a give-away to his father. "She—er, the customer asked for you."

He was grateful that his father followed wordlessly.

Once out the counter, Nathaniel offered her a friendly smile. "What can I get you?"

She straightened her back and started toying with one of two braids. "It's my sister's birthday tomorrow, and I'd like to buy her a frosted cupcake, please."

"Oh, then you can talk to Peeta here, he's in charge of frosting." said Nathaniel with a grin.

She turned to Peeta reservedly and nodded. "May I describe how I want it?" she asked him.

She asked _him_.

If he could've started whooping gleefully right then and there without the conversation turning peculiar, he would've done so. But he settled for a tentative smile, and replied "Of course."

"Well then, I have to get back to my dough. Son, ring the bell if you need some assistance." said Nathaniel, before disappearing behind the swinging door.

Peeta felt indebted to his father for leaving him alone with _her_, but then the anxiety kicked in, and he only hoped his sweat and trembling hands weren't that obvious.

"Would you like to sit down?" he said, gesturing to the chair used by employees.

She took her seat without a word, although not fully relaxing. He grabbed his notepad from his apron and bit off the cap of his pen, using his teeth to place it on the other side of the pen. He looked up and found her watching him closely, only to turn his gaze back to the notepad to hide his heated face.

"What kind of frosting would she like?" asked Peeta, while making an effort to seem occupied despite the fact that he was just sketching a dandelion on his pad.

"Butterscotch frosting."

He bit the end of his pen subconsciously, observing his drawing. It could obviously use some color. He had wanted it to look realistic, but the shading was all wrong. He added more flowers—daisies, chrysanthemums, roses, tulips—and he thought they all went alright. He had to start working on his dandelions.

"Pretty."

He jolted, almost dropping his pen. She was so close—how come he hadn't noticed her?—that he could smell her hair without her noticing, as she was still engaged in his drawing.

"I didn't know you could draw." she said, looking up to meet his gaze.

"Oh, it's nothing." he said, laying the pad on the counter. "I'm sorry, what kind of frosting did you say?"

"Butterscotch." she replied, outlining the edge of the counter. "In the shape of primroses at the top."

Butterscotch frosting was one Peeta had yet to perfect, and he didn't know what primroses looked like either. "Can you draw a primrose for me? I've kinda forgotten how they looked like."

She took the pen and the pad, furrowing her brows as she recalled its appearance. She bit her lip as she sketched the flower, deep in concentration. Afterwards, she handed it to him, blushing.

"I don't draw." she said, staring at her feet.

He grinned, taking the pad. "It's not _that_ bad." he said, hoping he could wheedle out a smile from her lips.

To her disappointment—and amusement—she scowled and crossed her arms. "I'll describe the flower to you; you try to draw it."

He obeyed and started to draw at a furious pace, listening to every detail she threw at him. After five trials, she nodded, indicating she was satisfied with his sketch.

"Finally." he muttered, feigning annoyance.

She only rolled her eyes and rose from her chair. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

His heart soared at her words, although knowing it was said for the cupcake's sake. He nodded once, smiling at the back of her retreating figure.

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

* * *

"It's past your bedtime, Peeta." said Nathaniel, stifling a yawn. Bront was double-checking all the locks on the doors; though it was more or less his tenth lap of roaming around the inner bakery.

Peeta sighed, surrendering. He was very much exhausted, and he had undoubtedly wasted a lot of ingredients whilst looking for the perfect butterscotch frosting recipe. No matter how much he tried, the technique evaded him, and it annoyed him so.

He hung his apron on the designated hook with his mind reeling around possible ideas. It was the dandelion problem all over again.

He arrived home, already darkly lit, signifying the sleeping inhabitants. He trudged to his room, flopping on the bed. He started wondering if Katniss was still awake too, staring at her own ceiling.

He chuckled softly, as the image of her scowl swam in front of his eyes.

He closed his eyes, vowing that next time, it'll be her smile he falls asleep to.

* * *

Peeta was in a good mood.

His face was smeared with flour and bits of frosting, his hands weary from four hours of constant work, his workplace seemingly ravaged by a hurricane in his haste, but his smile remained as one of unrivaled delight.

The pride evident on his father's face was not to challenge either. Nathaniel certainly hadn't been oblivious to Peeta's affectionate feelings for Chrysa's eldest daughter, and the ironic situation amused—and partly saddened—him. After all, Peeta was doing what he didn't have the courage to do at the same age.

He just hoped that unlike him, his son's story would have a happy ending.

Together, they hurriedly cleared the area for fear of one of Ambrosia's unpredictable inspections. It was indeed already a quarter past seven in the morning, indicating that she was most likely to be awake, and that the merchant shops were bustling with their usual activity.

Peeta quickly grew apprehensive as each minute passed without her presence. The idleness of his hands troubled him, and he decided to make another cupcake, but this time it was to be entirely for _her_.

He frosted it with dandelions.

It wasn't as difficult as before, considering the vast number of attempts he had made at home.

Each of the pastries he packed in a box and topped with little blue ribbons. He decided it was to be a gift, the one with buttercream dandelions. He could only hope it would be able to bring forth a smile from her lips.

Peeta was excused from the rest of the day's work; his father thought it was well-earned. But as he tapped his fingers on the desk, listening to each chime of the door's bell, he found it most difficult to ease his anxiety.

After grabbing a pen, he sketched on both of the boxes—flowers, trees, grass, clouds, anything the word 'nature' brought to his mind. He knew of her father's hunting practices, sometimes seeing the two together on their way to the fence, and thus he could never disassociate the thought of her from the woods.

He wished she was being safe.

He ran his fingers through his hair, abruptly filled with fear from all the possibilities in how she could be hurt: wild animals, poisonous fruits, roaming Peacekeepers—

"Peeta?"

His head snapped up—wide eyes, unruly hair and all—because that voice has only ever uttered his name in his dreams.

It was _her_.

She was standing by the door, clad in an orange dress, her dangling hair ruffled by the wind, her grey eyes unflinching from his gaze.

There was no exaggeration in saying she looked dazzling.

"I brought my sister. I thought she'd like to meet you." she said, beckoning to him.

He hastily grabbed the two boxes the moment she stepped out of the door. Gently stashing the other in the pocket of his apron, he followed her outside the kitchen. There he saw her pick up a beaming girl of about five years of age and spin her around. The blonde-haired child erupted in a fit of giggles, causing her elder sister to _smile_.

He thought it was breathtakingly beautiful.

She caught his eye and set her sister down, their hands interwoven as if it was the most natural thing to ever exist.

"Peeta, this is Prim, my sister."

Peeta strode to where they stood and knelt before the child. "Happy birthday Prim." he said with a friendly smile.

The young child grinned in response, before taking him in a long embrace. Peeta carried her without even checking for her elder sister's approval, knowing whatever made Prim happy would make _her_ also.

"Primroses!" she squealed gleefully. "I'm never going to eat it." she murmured, her eyes sparkling.

Peeta set her down, his eyebrows furrowing. _Was there something wrong with it? _"Why not?" he asked, timidly shoving his hands in his pockets.

"It's too beautiful. It will be a perfect centerpiece though!" she said, turning to her elder sister.

He laughed, relieved. "I made it for eating." he said, faking reproach. "Besides, what will you do with it when it spoils?"

"Eat it?" Prim suggested, giggling. She then turned her little head to Nathaniel, who had just exited the store to wipe the display window clean. "Can I go out and look at the cakes?" she asked of her sister, noticeably excited.

"'Course. It's your birthday, isn't it?" she replied with a laugh, pushing Prim towards the door.

"Thank you." she said, the moment her sister had ran out the door. "For the cupcake. She loves it." Her expression returned to her usual stoic one, seeing as one of the very few people who could make her smile was no longer in the near vicinity, as she was outside being entertained by Peeta's father.

He started to decline as she dropped a few coins in his hand; it was his intention to give both of the pastries as gifts, and he knew his father would not mind. But words of protest escaped him as she wrapped her hand over his, enclosing the payment inside.

The sudden _ding!_from the door jolted them apart, along with Prim's head peeking through the door. "It's almost twelve o'clock, Katniss! Father's making stew, remember?" she said, jumping up and down from excitement.

"Of course." her elder sister replied, before turning to Peeta. "I'll see you around, then." she said with a polite nod, heading toward the front door, with Prim already several meters ahead of her.

He timidly shoved his hands in his pockets, watching her retreating figure.

Surprisingly, his hand caught hold of something.

A box.

With a ribbon on top.

"Wait, Katniss!"

She abruptly turned, only to be caught in an unexpected embrace by Peeta. He subtly dropped the cupcake in her open satchel before letting go, albeit relucantly. She seemed truly surprised by the turn of his actions and afterwards walked hurriedly towards Prim, evading further discussion.

He watched her, with his hand hanging in the air, along with his goodbyes.

He watched her, the way he always does after class.

He watched her hair, flowing smoothly with the wind.

He watched her gait, bold but graceful.

Then she stopped brusquely in the middle of the path, stuck her hand in her bag, and spun around to face the bakery, the box in her hand. She started to run back, thinking it must have been a mistake, when—thank heavens—Prim grabbed her hand, stomping her feet to emphasize her frustration, and pulled her away.

She took one last look at the bakery, before letting her younger sister lead her to their house in a quickened pace.

"I'll see you around." he murmured to himself.

He couldn't wipe the grin off his face. It was a good day.

* * *

**A/N Please review! It would be amazing! You can tell me absolutely anything. :)**


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